


A Man in Uniform

by romanticalgirl



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Uniform Kink, getting caught
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-28
Updated: 2018-07-28
Packaged: 2019-06-17 16:31:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15465492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: Steve loves a man in uniform. He loves Bucky in uniform. He loves Bucky. The problem is that Bucky doesn't know, and there's no way Steve can tell him. No way he can let Bucky know.That goes about as well as can be expected.





	A Man in Uniform

**Author's Note:**

> Content notes at the bottom

It’s not a thing. 

At least, he’s pretty sure it’s not a thing.

It’s totally a thing.

Bucky’s out with Mara and Eleanor -- “Just as friends, Stevie. Not gonna do anything with two girls” accompanied by a wink that lets him know that Bucky’s going to do something with each or both because that’s who Bucky is. That’s the life Bucky leads -- at the movies or at a dance club or something. He tried to get Steve to come, but Steve knows he’s a lost cause.

For a lot of reasons.

One of which is this.

Which is completely, totally, definitely a thing.

That he should completely, totally, definitely not be doing.

Because it would be one thing if it were just envy. If it were staring at the khaki and wishing it was his uniform, his proof that he wasn’t a complete failure as a human and a man. It would be one thing if it meant he was serving his country like he should be.

But the truth of the matter is that he’s staring at it because he wants to wear it for reasons that have nothing to do with serving his country and everything to do with the fact that sailors and soldiers and airmen are willing to let Steve strip their regulation uniforms open, to pull their shirts from open slacks, to kiss their lower stomach, to suck on their pricks in back alleys and darkened corners. 

Because if he can’t serve, he can service the service men. He can let them bend him over and brace himself on a brick wall so his hands get all scraped up in ways that seem like maybe he fell to the ground and caught himself after someone knocked him down in a fight so that Bucky doesn’t question them. Bend him over tables in back rooms of old speakeasies and sinks in bathrooms. Ways that let him feel hard metal buttons against his back, ribbons pinned to chests dig their edges against his skin.

And this. This one. 

This one he can carefully take off the hanger and iron it so the fabric is warm, and then slip it on over his bare skin -- not even an undershirt -- and feel the slightly rough material, the weight of Bucky’s dress uniform on his chest and back, over his ass and dick. 

And fuck, if feels good. 

He can imagine it’s Bucky pressed against his back, imagine that the fabric that strokes his thighs is Bucky’s shirt spread open as Steve straddles him. It’s Bucky’s long sleeves brushing the curve of his ass as he opens Steve up, that it's his fingers covered in Vaseline spreading Steve’s hole wide instead of his own, that it’s Bucky dressed beneath him except for where his cock is free from his slacks and pushing up inside Steve rather than the handle of a hairbrush that Steve’s using as a makeshift cock to fuck himself.

He bends over and presses his head to his pillow to muffle his sounds imagining it’s Bucky’s hand gagging him instead. That the uniform that presses against his back as he bends over, the uniform he presses against his chest with the hand not fucking himself, is Bucky’s. 

That every prick he’s sucked, every soldier he’s let fuck him, every uniform that’s pressed against him was Bucky’s. 

He knows he should stop, knows he should quit scraping and pressing against the bundle of nerves that lights him up every time, knows he shouldn’t catch the uniform shirt in the palm of his hand and then wrap it around his dick, jerking himself off, rubbing the fabric against his dick, burying his face in the pillow until he almost can’t breathe, shoving the hairbrush handle as deep as he can until his whole body shudders and he comes, a few drops of come staining the material as he buries Bucky’s name in the pillow, a choked-off cry that accompanies the pulse and shiver that overtakes him.

He slumps down on the bed, incapable of doing much more, not even managing to clear the uniform shirt from the mes he’d made on the bed. He can’t help thrusting the hairbrush again and his whole body shake he does, overstimulated and overwhelmed.

“That my uniform?”

Steve freezes, caught and caught out. He can’t even imagine what he looks like. He tightens his grip on the brush and carefully eases it out of him. Even so he nearly falls apart, his dick twitching where it’s trapped between him and the bed, more come squeezed from the head. He doesn’t say anything. He just leaves his head buried in the pillow, wishing for something to catch in his chest so he can have an asthma attack and not have to deal with any of this.

“I’m gonna take that as a yes.” Bucky’s voice sounds strangled, and Steve has to wonder which Bucky is more horrified by -- Steve defiliing his uniform or Steve fucking himself, taking it so desperately. 

“I’m sorry,” Steve chokes on the words, shifting off the mattress and sitting on his heels. He looks down, unable to meet Bucky’s eyes, only to see the wrinkled, wet fabric of Bucky’s uniform. “I’m...I’ll…” He unbuttons the top two buttons then pulls it over his head, scrambling for his nightshirt, one of his father’s shirts his mother had kept, and pulling it over his head.

Bucky hasn’t moved, the uniform he’s wearing pristine -- not a wrinkle, not a crease save for the one in his slacks. Steve gets off the bed, tugging off the threadbare towel he’d covered the bedspread with, wrapping it around the handle of the brush, holding both in front of him like some sort of barrier. 

“I’ll clean it up. I’ll… I’ll get the money for you to buy a new one. It’ll take me… I have some of ma’s stuff I can sell. I’ll get you the money and… and I can go. Father Mulahey said I could stay in the storage room at the rectory when you were gone. Until I got on my feet. I can do that. Earlier. I’ll go to Queens and confess and it’ll be alright, and I’ll…” He runs out of words, out of energy. All he has left is shame.

They stand there, a room and a world apart, and Bucky doesn’t speak, doesn’t give Steve anything. Nothing to fight against or resign himself to. Finally, Steve moves, taking a step back. 

“I’m real sorry, Buck. I never meant for you to…” He shakes his head, staring at the floor, at the evidence of his shame in his hands. “I’ll just…” He walks away from the bed, grabbing the uniform shirt at the last minute and gives Bucky a wide berth on his way to the door. “D’you want me to wait in the alley?”

Bucky’s eyes go wide and Steve’s whole body flushes.

“Not… I know you’re not…” He closes his eyes and laughs, the sound melting into a sob. “I meant so you can beat the hell out of me. Won’t put up a fight.”

“No.” Bucky chokes on the word, and something about the way it sounds makes shame dance down Steve’s spine again. 

“Right. I’m…” He dodges through the door into the living room. There’s not enough room in their bedroom for both beds and a dresser, so Steve grabs clean clothes on his way to the door. Bucky doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t stop him, and Steve nearly falls down the stairs in his rush to get away from his humiliation.

There’s a room in the basement where there’s a rusted sink, a damp floor, and the haunting scritch of rats in the walls. Steve runs the water over Bucky’s uniform, scrubbing the fabric together to try to get it clean. He can do that, wash out the stain of his inversion. The water is cold, and before he realizes it, his hands are splotchy red and white, knuckles raw. It takes multiple tries to turn the water off, his fingers numb and not working. 

He can’t even manage wringing the shirt out, so he drapes it over the side of the sink, letting it drip onto the concrete. There’s a moth-eaten blanket in the corner of the room that’s likely been thrown away by someone. Steve goes over and sits on it, wrapping his hands in the scratchy wool. He knows this is something else he’ll regret; he’ll have hives on his skin from the wool, and likely bites from fleas as well. 

He closes his eyes and rests his head against the wall. His body aches from earlier, any pleasant after-effects drowned out by shame and embarrassment and fear. He’ll have to wait until Bucky leaves to go to work to go back to the apartment and get the shoes he left behind, get the money he has saved and leave it out for Bucky to buy a new uniform shirt. Go to Queens to say confession.

Even with that he doesn’t think he can live in the rectory, so he’ll need to find somewhere to live. Or, if he’s honest with himself, to die. Because he’s faced death often enough living in an apartment with something to eat every day of his life. Living in one of the Hoovervilles on a bed of cardboard will make it all that much quicker.

He hears the door at the top of the stairs open, the loud sound of shoes on wood as someone comes down into the room. Steve huddles further in on himself, pulling the blanket around him more in an effort not to be seen. 

Bucky stops at the sink and looks at his uniform. He touches the fabric, then picks it up, wringing it tightly between his hands. He glances around, eyes falling on Steve. “You’re gonna catch your death down here.”

“I’m fine.”

“No. You’re not.” Steve hangs his head. Bucky could mean any number of things by that. “Come upstairs.”

“No.”

Bucky breathes deeply, letting it out slowly. “Steve, you can either walk your scrawny ass up to the apartment, or I’m gonna put you over my shoulder and carry you up there. One way or the other, you’re gonna end up in our apartment, so you choose how you want to get there.”

He crosses his arms over his chest, tapping his foot against the floor. He keeps his gaze on Steve, mouth in a thin line. Waiting. He’s changed out of his uniform into his light blue pajama pants and his undershirt, wearing his dad’s old sweater as a robe. Steve bites his lower lip and swallows hard before pushing away the blanket and getting to his feet. Bucky’s eyes look him over head to toe, narrowing when Steve comes into the light and he can see the red swelling of the hives already starting, mixed with the white skin burned cold by the water.

“Jesus Chris, Rogers.” Bucky shakes his head and grabs Steve by the back of the neck, marching him up the stairs. He goes slow enough not to overwhelm Steve and send him into an asthma attack, but he refuses to stop. He kicks the apartment door open with his foot and pushes Steve in in front of him, though he keeps his hand on his neck so he doesn’t go far. Bucky releases him and shuts and locks the door. Steve rubs the back of his neck, walking across the room to put distance between them. “Kitchen.”

Steve tilts his head in confusion, finally following when Bucky turns on his heel and walks over to the table. He stretches his uniform shirt out on it to dry, then goes to the pot on the stove. He pours two cups of dirty water that’s likely the last dregs of their coffee and sets a mug on the counter in front of Steve.

“Drink.”

“Buck, I…”

“No. You don’t get to talk.” Steve snaps his mouth closed. “You did a whole lot of talking and didn’t let me get a word in edgewise. So you’re gonna drink that, keep your yap shut, and listen for once in your goddamned life.”

Steve blinks at him and swallows, sinking into one of the chairs and taking a sip of the coffee. It really is barely more than water, but it’s hot and feels good on his throat, the mug warming his hands.

“So. You’re queer.”

Steve stares down into his mug and nods. His skin feels hot with shame. 

“You ever gonna tell me?”

Steve shakes his head this time, daring to speak. “No.”

“There a reason why not?”

Steve looks up immediately. “Because it’s gonna get me killed.”

“Telling me would do no such thing.” Bucky takes a drink from his own mug, refusing to look away from Steve for a moment. He doesn’t even seem to blink. “You think I’d turn on you? Or turn you in? That what you think of me?”

“Never put you in that position. Not… I never… You weren’t ever supposed to know. To see.” Steve drops his gaze back to his mug. He goes on, not sure Bucky hears him. “No one was supposed to ever see. No one I knew. No one I… It was just strangers. I could just pretend that… If it was strangers it wasn’t real.”

He doesn't realize Bucky’s moved until he hears the scrape of the other chair being pulled closer to him. Bucky sits down and puts his mug on the table. “Why were you wearing my uniform?”

Steve closes his eyes tight, feeling the burn of tears slip out and darken his eyelashes. “I…”

“That why you want to go over there so bad? Have a bunch of guys missing their sweethearts and looking for a little relief?”

Steve looks up at him, lips parted in horror. “How dare you.”

Bucky leans in, thumping his finger onto the table to punctuate every word. “You were fucking yourself in the ass and wearing my uniform. That’s how I fucking dare.”

Steve flinches back, pulling his feet up onto the seat and wrapping his arms around his legs. He presses his face to his knees. “You know me better than that, don’t you?”

“Thought I knew you.”

“You know me.” He can’t look at Bucky, too afraid that he’s wrong. “What the Nazis are doing. What Hitler’s doing. That’s got nothing to do with wh-what I was doing.” He can feel the tears threatening. Let Bucky hate him for being queer. Let Bucky hate him for everything that he is and can’t help being. But he won’t let him say he doesn’t have any honor. He raises his head and meets Bucky’s eyes. “They’re bullies. Riding roughshod over countries that can’t defend themselves, just because they can. I don’t need to enlist to get soldiers to fuck me.”

This time Bucky flinches. “How long? How long you been like this?”

“My whole life, I think. Knew it for sure when I was fourteen. At that fight they had at the gym. Patrick O’Shea and Michael Pierson. Was watching them and just thinking they were beautiful. Like they were dancin’.” He shrugs and looks back down at his feet. His toes are white. Hopefully he won’t lose any of them. “You dragged me off, because you were gonna go out with Sheila and she was bringing a friend for me. You thought I didn’t want to go because it was a double date, and I didn’t. But I didn’t want to leave the fight.”

“No wonder you couldn’t manage to get a girl interested. _You_ weren’t interested.”

“No. I mean, I like girls. I do. I just… I don’t dream about ‘em. Don’t think about ‘em when I...touch.”

“You think about guys.”

Steve nods, hugging his legs tighter. “Yeah.”

“Like who?”

“What?” His head jerks up fast enough that his neck hurts. 

“Who d’you think about? People I know? Or like movie stars and shit?” Bucky takes a drink of his coffee, not looking at Steve now, and heat flushes Steve’s skin again. Because Bucky knows. He must know. “Our friends?”

“Movie stars. Baseball guys. Boxers. Nobody in particular. Mostly don’t even have faces. Just bodies. I like the way their bodies fit together.”

Bucky reaches out and swipes his thumb back and forth over the fabric of his drying shirt. “There a reason it was my uniform, Stevie?”

Steve’s never been able to lie to Bucky, and even though this would likely be the most important lie he’d ever tell, he knows he still can’t do it. “I think… Sometimes. I mean, if there's a face. If it’s someone. A whole someone.” He nods and shrugs and hunches in on himself all at once. “I know that makes me a shitty friend. I know that I must disgust you. But I never…. I’ve never thought that you’d do it. That you’d be like me. Never. Ever. I need you to believe that, Buck. It ain’t never been about thinking you would. Just wondering what it’d be like if…” He stops because he knows he’s likely only making things worse. 

“You really thought this’d make a difference for us? That I’d stop being your friend.” The words are soft now, and Steve looks up quickly to see confusion and hurt in Bucky’s expression. 

“That. Or it’d change. You’d stop showing up to stop my fights. You wouldn’t put your arm around me and rub my head with your knuckles. Or you’d feel like you had to condone it. Like you’d think you’d have to ask me questions, act like what I did was like one of your dates. Share details like you do with me. Did.”

Bucky's quiet, and Steve’s actually grateful for it. Glad that, whatever he’s going to say, Bucky’s not acting from emotion. He’s thinking about how he feels. Even if it’s the end of everything, it’s not a gut-punch reaction. It’s the truth. He may not be able to handle the truth as well as he wants, but he _can_ handle it. He doesn’t always believe the truth about himself -- he isn’t what he looks like, except for this -- but he know Bucky won’t lie to him. 

“You’ve been this way since I’ve known ya, right?”

“Pretty sure I was born this way. Along with everything else that’s wrong with me. What’s one more thing, right? Everything about me’s gonna kill me one way or another.”

“So why would it change?”

“What?”

“Look, I ain’t saying I understand it, because I don’t. Guys are guys. They’re just guys to me. Nothing to look at. Nothing to… I don’t know. You want ‘em, right? Nothing like that. But it don’t change who you are, because you’ve always been that way.”

“But you know now. Know what I think about. I know you hear me, just like I hear you. That’s not something you’re gonna forget.”

“You seem bound and determined for me to hate you for this.” Bucky tilts his head. “That what you want?”

“I’d rather you hate me than be disgusted by me. Than stay because you think you’ve gotta. Couldn’t live with you lying to me.”

“I just don’t get it, ‘s all. I mean, it’s _guys_. And stuff isn’t supposed to go up there. I mean, don’t it hurt?”

Steve laughs a little, the sound a little broken. “Sometimes. A little at first. But if he takes his time -- if I take my time -- it doesn’t. Just feels full. I mean, you ever asked a girl how it felt to have your prick in her?”

“No. Why would I do that? I mean, I make sure she feels good, but I only know ‘bout how my dick feels in her.”

“All I know is how his feels in me.” Steve shrugs. He can see the thought makes Bucky uncomfortable. “Look, you don’t want to talk about this, and I get it. It doesn’t make sense to you, and it ain’t gonna. So I’ll make sure you don’t see, and I’ll... “ He starts to reach out, to touch Bucky’s uniform, but jerks his hand back before he can. “I won’t do that anymore. Won’t think about… faces. I’m real sorry about that, Buck.”

“Well, I am pretty damn good looking. I guess if all guys looked like me, I could maybe understand liking ‘em.” As far as jokes go, it’s awful, strangled and off, but it’s also Bucky _trying_.

“No one else could be you. But I mean it. Ain’t gonna betray our friendship anymore. And if you change your mind. If you want me gone, you tell me. I’ll understand. I need you to promise me that. That you’ll tell me.”

“I ain’t kicking you out, Rogers.”

“Buck.”

Bucky’s quiet for a long time. “Yeah. All right. I promise.” He looks Steve in the eye. “Ain’t gonna happen though.” Draining the last of his coffee, Bucky nods toward the other room. “Don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted. What say we hit the hay?”

Steve nods. He’s tired. Exhausted is the right word. “Yeah.”

They walk into the bedroom, and Steve’s bed is remade. Bucky cleans when he’s nervous, so Steve knows that’s why. He doesn’t say anything, just changes into a clean set of pajamas and climbs in under the covers. He closes his eyes, knowing that, even though he feels this way, he’s not going to sleep. He’s not sure he’ll ever sleep again.

After an hour of not moving, Steve hears Bucky sigh. “Stevie?”

“Yeah, Buck?” They’re whispering; that’s how you tell secrets, tell truths, in the dark. 

“You in love with me?”

Steve squeezes his eyes closed. “Yeah, Buck.”

Bucky hums. “Know it ain’t much, but I love you too. You’re the best friend a guy ever had.”

Steve turns over and looks at Bucky, unable to really see him, but knowing even without seeing him, there’s honesty written across Bucky’s face. “It’s more than ‘not much,’ Bucky.” Steve reaches out and finds Bucky’s hand in the dark, squeezing it. “It’s everything.”

**Author's Note:**

> Steve gets caught masturbating by Bucky who doesn't know Steve is gay.  
> Steve is deliberately reckless with his health and the possibility of death.


End file.
